The police car was gone, now, and he began walking. A few people stared at him, but only for a moment. He tried to ignore them. He aimed toward places where there were few people, through alleys and side streets. After half an hour, in a more deserted area, he stopped, staring at a street sign. Why?What was it? Something about that street. He stood there until he was afraid he would attract attention to himself, then began walking along it.
The night grew older, and he realized he could see his breath. Was it cold, then? That thought, those actions triggered a vague sense of familiarity. As he walked he noted that the lights were gone now, leaving small brick buildings with plate-glass windows.An hour or so later, these gave way to old houses,most with open porches and heavy doors, collapsing steps and two or three mailboxes.
It came to him that he had stopped; that he hadn't moved for some time. He stared at the house and kept blinking. It had once, perhaps, been yellow or green; it was difficult to be certain in this light. A big porch, two mailboxes, two doors. One door led upstairs. He tried it and it was open. The stairway was very narrow and curved for the last three steps at the top. The hallway here was narrow, too.
He hesitated for what felt like a long time, then, he knocked. He heard a chair shuffling, and heavy, slow footsteps. From the other side: "Yeah, what is it?"
He took a deep breath and said, "Please, let me in. Karen sent me."
The door flew open as if it were being ripped off its hinges, and the Gypsy stared into a pair of cold blue eyes, wide with shock and anger. Around them was a round, clean-shaven face more suited to grins than rage. The hair was well-groomed, and he wore a checked sports shirt unbuttoned over a white tee shirt. He said, "What the fuck do you mean, Karen sent you?"
"Are you Brian MacWurthier?"
"Yeah."
The Gypsy read confusion behind the anger."Karen sent me. She told me that you had cared well for her, and that I was to see that you were all right,and-"
"When did she say all this?"
"I… I'm not certain. Several days ago, I think."
MacWurthier blinked. "Karen is dead." He choked a little as he said it.
"Yes, I know."
"But-"
"I see that you are well, so that is all I was to do.Goodbye."
"Wait a minute!"
The Gypsy turned back, waited. "Yes?"
"I don't get-who are you, anyway?"
"Gypsy."
MacWurthier glanced at his clothing and nodded."You look it." He blinked. "You must be freezing out there. It can't be much above zero. What's your name?"
"Gypsy," he said. "I think that is my name."
"You don't know your name? You got amnesia or something?"
"Yes. That must be it. But it doesn't matter."
"Well, why did you say I'm all right?"
The Gypsy considered this, then said slowly, "You have been keeping yourself shaved and cleaned, and there is no liquor on your breath. The redness in your eyes is nearly gone. You have passed the worst of your grief, and it won't destroy you."
MacWurthier stared at him. "Man," he said. "This is weird. Well, can you come in for a minute?"
The Gypsy hesitated, then nodded. MacWurthier stepped aside and the Gypsy entered a short hall,with a small kitchen to his left and a small living room on his right. Karen, the ghost, stared at him from a picture on the far wall of the living room, above a matte black stereo system. The place was small and neat, save for a few magazines scattered here and there. The Gypsy read the titles: Time, Computer World, Datamation.
"Sit down," said MacWurthier. The Gypsy did so,sitting stiffly at one end of a brown Naugahyde sofa."Can I get you a beer? Coffee? Coke? Tea?"
"Tea would be nice."
"Sugar?"
"No, thank you."
"All right. Just a sec."
He went into the kitchen. The Gypsy felt Karen's presence in the room, and felt hints and traces, as of a remembered fragrance, of what the two of them had been for each other. There had been anger as well as love here, but the anger had never been violent, and the love had still been strong when Karen had died.
MacWurthier returned with two cups of tea. The Gypsy tasted it. It was black and bitter, but of a good kind. He felt a warmth as it went down his throat that made him wonder if he had, in fact, been cold.
"So, did you meet Karen while she was ill?"
No, I met her while she was dead. "Yes."
"She asked you to look after me?"
"She said you cared for her very much, and she was worried."
He swallowed, and there was pain on his face. He would have new lines in a year; he would become older. It was sad. It was inevitable. "Well, thanks."
The Gypsy nodded.
"It was leukemia," MacWurthier continued. "Hell of a thing."
"Yes."
"I think I'll move out of here."
"Perhaps that would be best." As he spoke, his vision began to blur, which meant that soon his headache would return.
MacWurthier continued, "It's hard, you know? All the things we used to do together. Every time I go by the park, I see those horse-drawn cabs we used to ride in, and I almost cry. There was this one guy we used to get on Sundays who'd take us off the main paths- Once we went all the way around Circle Lake."
He was staring off into the distance, but the Gypsy almost dropped his teacup. The vision came to him of the Coachman, thin and dark, cynical and drunken.He must find him. He must. He dimly heard MacWurthier ask if he had a place to stay the night, but his concentration was elsewhere. He must find the Coachman, and his brothers. Soon.
If only he could remember why.
They say the weapon vanished,
they say the suspect split.
Point your finger somewhere else;
I couldn't give a shit.
"STEPDOWN"
"Please," said Stepovich. He felt the word grate up his throat.
Marilyn swung back to look at him reproachfully."Stepovich, you bastard, that isn't fair!"
"1 know," he said. "But it's the only thing I have left, so I'm saying it. Please."
She said nothing as a secretary tip-tapped past them in high heels, but as soon as she was safely out of hearing range, she leaned closer to Stepovich and hissed, "Listen, I know I owe you. And I've said any number of times that I'd make it up to you in anyway I could. But I didn't mean something like this!This is bending a lot of rules, Mike. And people like us don't do that. It's one of the reasons we get along so well. So don't ask me."
He clenched his teeth a moment, standing with his head lowered. He knew it wasn't fair. He knew this wasn't the kind of thing she'd meant when she'd promised to pay the favor back. She'd meant dinner at her house, or an evening out at her expense or something else that might have led to places he wasn't ready to go. Not a favor that could lead to her losing her job. So she was upset, not just because he'd asked for this, but because he'd never asked her for the other. She put her hand on the door of the ladies' room again. He'd deliberately caught Marilyn out in the hall, away from her computer and coworkers. She probably had to go to the John pretty bad, and she'd already told him "no" twice. But he needed help. And he'd been the one to go in and find her nephew in that rat-ridden flophouse, and drag him out and help Marilyn drive him across to Pennsylvania and check him into a drug rehab center. Marilyn wasn't even the kid's legal guardian. They'd bent a rule or two then, and she knew it. He'd sweated day and night for six weeks that the kid was going to have his parents press some kind of kidnapping charges. But Stepovich had done it, because even if it was against the rules, it was still right. And maybe what he was asking of Marilyn was the right thing to do also.Maybe.
"Please."
She spun on him, a transcription clerk with doggie brown eyes, suddenly transformed into a hellcat. She took a step toward him and he involuntarily stepped back, expecting to feel the rake of her nails. But she snatched at his sleeve and pulled him closer.